


Not So Little

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Not Actually Unrequited Lust, Watching Someone Sleep, outdoor masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin's looking for a way to let his half-brother know about his feelings, but this probably isn't the way he'd have chosen to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Little

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:** Fingolfin is obsessed with Fëanor, head over heels in love with him. One day he comes upon Fëanor asleep in the palace gardens, looking so beautiful he can't help but touch himself.

Fingolfin had noticed the signs for some while now - his heartbeat speeding up, his hands trembling, an unusual melting feeling in the pit of his stomach, and of course, the inevitable erection - whenever he was in the presence of his half-brother. Fëanor was magnificently beautiful, and every time their eyes met, Fingolfin was swept away once more into a firestorm of desire. 

The palace gardens were vast, sweeping down the side of the hill of Túna all the way to the lake at the foot, and on days when Fingolfin could not get Fëanor out of his mind, he would go and walk in them for hours, taking careful notes about what flowers were blooming at each time of year. Sometimes he would take his sketchbook and sit crosslegged on the ground, drawing the slender stems of lilies or the curves of fragrant roses, until the heat in his blood subsided. 

Today, however, it seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual for him to calm down. Maybe it was the weather - bright and warm - or maybe it had been the look in Fëanor's eyes as he returned home from a long journey, a sudden kindling of flame in the depths of him. His eyes had lingered on Fingolfin today in what he hoped was a certain genuine appreciation, and Fëanor's words had been tinged with a warmth that had always before been lacking. 

_"You've grown up, little one," Fëanor remarked, laughing, raking him with those eyes. "Indeed, I shouldn't call you 'little one' any longer, now that you're taller than I am."_

Fingolfin smiled, remembering how he'd glanced down at Fëanor with a casual raised eyebrow, affecting a supercilious haughtiness that he recalled well from his younger days when Fëanor had directed it at him. Fëanor had given him a smirk in return, all too aware of who it was that Fingolfin was imitating. He had drawn in a breath to say something, but before he could, Finwë appeared, sweeping down the hallway and gathering Fëanor into his arms. In the wake of that meeting, Fingolfin had slipped away, knowing that everything and everyone disappeared in Finwë's eyes when Fëanor was near, and not wanting to interrupt their reunion. 

The gardens were at their fairest. Birds trilled lightly in the trees as branches waved in the soft cool breezes. One section of the garden was wilder, a meadow of flowers ringed by a variety of trees, and it was there Fingolfin found himself after a couple of hours of wandering aimlessly through carefully-trained beds of perfectly-grown flowers, fruits, and vegetables. The Mingling of the Lights was just starting - Laurelin waning, Telperion increasing. The wildflower meadow blazed with every shade of colour: greens, blues, reds, oranges, pinks, purples, indigos, yellows, and white, and under the shade of an oak tree on the far side of the meadow, Fëanor lay sleeping. 

Fingolfin caught his breath, taking two more steps toward him before halting, staring. If he had thought Fëanor was beautiful awake, he was even more beautiful asleep, eyes closed in true sleep, fully relaxed. His head was pillowed on the green moss under the tree, and one hand was flung out to his side, as though in the middle of a particularly demonstrative gesture, while the other was clasped to his breast. 

Stepping closer, Fingolfin's first impulse was only to watch him sleep for a time, to drink in all the little features of Fëanor's face and body that sent his heart fluttering and loins tingling. He knelt down on the grass not far away, and devoted himself to gazing adoringly at his half-brother. His dark hair swept down over his high forehead, his eyelashes fluttered softly against his rosy cheeks. His mouth, full and lush, pouted slightly as though begging to be kissed. His chin was firm and jaw defined, and his ears, just poking out of his hair, were relaxed and happy, tilted upward. What would it be like if Fingolfin were to breathe soft words of love into those ears, if he were to kiss that luscious mouth, lay a tender hand on that flushed cheek? 

His heart began to pound in his breast, and his breath came quickly. The light leggings he wore underneath his tunic were suddenly too restrictive, and he could not help easing a hand under the folds of his tunic, pressing down on his erection. The thin cloth was hardly a barrier and instead of willing his cock to go down, he began to stroke himself lightly through his leggings, his eyes fixed on Fëanor. 

What if he were to crawl over to him, drape his body over him, rut against him as he slept? He let out a breathless quiet groan, imagining Fëanor's yielding warmth against his own, of Fëanor waking only to smile at him and bring his own hand down to press their cocks together. Fëanor's face as he came all over their joined hands would be a sight more beautiful than the Trees in flower, more ecstatically wonderful than the stars themselves. 

Fëanor stirred softly in his sleep, and Fingolfin almost jerked his hand away from himself. He had to stop, or he would bring himself off right there in his leggings, close enough to Fëanor to reach out and touch him. But it felt so good to touch himself, to watch the one he wanted more than anything, to take this moment as payment for all the times when Fëanor was haughty or cold, or simply not there at all. 

Slipping his hand beneath his leggings and pushing them down to his knees, he finally touched himself in the way he'd been wanting to all along. He let out a soft sigh and pressed his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-come slickly down his length. He was close to coming. It wouldn't take long, and then he could disappear into the trees and wash his hands in the lake. 

"Fëanáro," he breathed, stroking firmly. Dizzy heat was welling up inside him, and he was so close, he could not hold back any longer - 

Fëanor stirred again, and opened his eyes, looking straight at Fingolfin in shock and surprise. It was too late, too much, and Fingolfin let out a gasping cry in his own shock and surprise, seed pulsing over his fingers in long jets, landing on the grassy sod almost where Fëanor's hand was. 

Fingolfin collapsed over himself, letting go of his cock, panting, too overwhelmed by pleasure to make excuses or beg forgiveness. Fëanor sat up, back against the trunk of the tree, and silently watched him. When Fingolfin caught his breath and dared to meet Fëanor's eyes, he found no condemnation in them, only amusement, and flickering far back in the depths of his eyes, an answering passion. 

"Well," Fëanor said at last, a hint of a smirk crossing his face, "you have grown up." His eyes flicked down to ogle Fingolfin's cock. "I'll never call you 'little one' again."


End file.
